


Casualties of War

by disasterpoet



Category: Henry V - Shakespeare, The King (2019)
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M, almost follows the plot of the movie, also I suck at writing anything remotely sex related, anyway, but hey ho it's the 15th century so they also suck at that, but not quite cause who needs that in their life, here's two twinks swordfighting in a field, implied Henry/Falstaff, implied mental breakdown incoming from me, should I have done my uni assignments instead of this?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:34:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23953162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disasterpoet/pseuds/disasterpoet
Summary: He paused, turning to lie on his back. ‘You English are always seeking glory. Do you think of nothing but land and wealth? My father too, ‘e will take England if you die tomorrow, and what do I get? Nothing, save an empty congratulations and another title. I am but a pawn in the game of more powerful men; I ‘ope for your sake that I don’t put you in check.’I had nothing more to say to him, no kind words to assuage his self-pity. The next time we met would be across the battlefield, with war raging between us.‘May God have mercy on your soul.’
Relationships: The Dauphin/Henry V of England
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	Casualties of War

All battles are fought in fields somewhere. Some insignificant piece of land that no one much cares about until blood is spilled over it. Then, we can no longer forget it. The turf carves itself into our minds and the history books, the story of war inherited from our forefathers. Perhaps after a few years we can’t quite remember the exact spot—the bodies gone or buried, the grass re-grown—but we remember the names, the places. 

Agincourt. It was unassuming, peaceful until we arrived; its only inhabitants were the wildflowers. They spread out in front of us, a sea of inviting colour welcoming us to France. We didn’t expect to fight there, only to pass through, but our enemies had a different idea. Soon, the flowers were trampled into the mud, and half of my men were dead. 

Even now, crossing the channel back to England, the kingdom of France bestowed upon me, I regret the need for such a war. The salt in my hair cannot comfort me, nor can my newfound glory. I am a warrior king, a powerful ally and dangerous opponent, but at what cost? The blood of both armies still lies slick in that field, that innocent field despoiled by men.

Gascoigne keeps trying to talk to me. I am in no mood to hear congratulations, nor to listen to his slow drawl that clings to you even after he’s stopped talking, like the sticky trail of a slug. He addresses me again, loudly, so I have no choice but to look at him. 

‘I’m sorry about Sir John, your majesty,’ he says. Whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t this. ‘He was a fine soldier, and his noble sacrifice shan’t be forgotten.’

‘Thank you.’ I have nothing else to say to him, and it’s clear that he too is devoid of conversation.

‘Then, I’ll take my leave, your majesty. Please try to get some rest.’ He retreats below deck, leaving me alone for the first time in weeks. I sit and think of Falstaff, my old drunkard friend John, and feel a lump form in my throat. I will not cry, not when any of my councillors could see. I reserve that for the privacy of my room when, at long last, I let my mind drift to another. I close my eyes and see blond hair, streaked with filth and blood, and weep for the undeserving victims of my war.

We did not so much arrive at Agincourt as get trapped there. We had no reports, no sign that the French army were approaching, and yet, there they were. The mass of tents and soldiers sprawled across the hilltop, blocking our path and grinding our progress through the countryside to a halt. We had no choice but to stop and set up camp, safe only in the knowledge that they wouldn’t attack just yet; the French are good at sticking to the rules of war. A wave of fear began to spread through our encampment, talk of the superior number of the French spurring it on. I sent messengers to the commander, asking who he was, and requesting a meeting with him. 

At dusk, the messengers reported, the Dauphin will see you. I remember thinking it was interesting that the King’s son himself had come to grace me with his presence. A warm-up to his father, that’s what he’d be to me. I would defeat him or die in defence of my country’s honour. 

I left our camp as the sun began to set, the bright orange sky slowly fading into night. The light capped the trees as it disappeared, and for a moment it seemed as if the woods were on fire. Half a day later, I would be standing in between those same trees, watching as the French knights cut down my sacrificial army, but for now I made my way up the hill, accompanied by a few councillors, Falstaff, and two soldiers. 

It wasn’t hard to find the Dauphin’s tent. It was by far the largest and woven with intricate designs in golden thread. It was a display of wealth and grandeur, one which I couldn’t hope to match with my simple canvas. The guards outside let us in without question, obviously aware of our visit. 

Inside the tent was just as decorative as the outside. The floor was lined with exotic rugs intended to keep out the cold, and a large number of candles meant that it was almost as light as day. There was a hanging partition that split the tent in two, probably to afford the Dauphin some privacy in his sleeping quarters, and a large gold throne occupied the attention of everyone in the room. 

More so did the person sitting in it. He was nothing like what I was expecting: a tall, broad warlord sent by his father to crush the invading English. Instead, his pale hair glowed softly in the candlelight and hung long around his face, in the fashion of a boy rather than a man. Though he was probably taller than me, he was nowhere near as giant as I had imagined, and if anything it only served to make him look weaker, his height detracting from what little muscle he had. He was certainly handsome, but also unintimidating, and I would’ve laughed had I not been his guest.

‘You are King ‘Enri, no?’ His accent was incredibly thick, comically so. I suggested we talk in French instead.

‘No, I like to speak English, it is an…interesting language.’

I ignored his immature dig and stated my purpose. ‘I wish to challenge you to a duel, one-on-one. Whoever wins is victorious, the other, slain. I should like to spare our armies and the blood of many.’

‘You mean you would like to spare your army, for you will be defeated, “Enri. I have not invited you ‘ere just to concede, but to tell you that I will destroy you would-be invaders. I’ll kill you and ‘ave you buried on French soil, a 6ft grave the only land you’ll ever own in my country. I admire your courage, but you do not have the strength to defeat my soldiers.’

Then, for some inexplicable reason, he started to joke about my genitals. I had thought the French were supposed to be rather sophisticated, but apparently not if the Dauphin was to be a representative. 

He sat back, laughing. It was a strange laugh, half snort, half giggle. He’d stuck his fists together with his little finger poking down, a crude imitation of a penis. Somehow, he was even less intimidating than he had been before, his childlike actions undermining anything he’d just said. I wondered why his father had sent him, when he seemed to be so incompetent. 

‘Are you done having fun at my expense,’ I asked, as he took a sip from his wine goblet. 

‘No, not quite,’ he replied, ‘I would like a word with you alone.’

‘Alone?’

‘Did I not make myself clear enough?’

I looked at Falstaff. He shrugged his shoulders and I took that to mean ‘go ahead’. I nodded and asked my councillors to leave, on the promise that they wouldn’t be harmed whilst out of my presence. Likewise, the Dauphin sent his guards to wait outside the tent, leaving us alone together.

He stood up, placing his goblet on the table next to him, and I realised I was right in my assessment of his height. He didn’t tower above me by any means, but he was certainly taller by a few inches. He stood several feet away, and looked me up and down.

‘What is it you wanted to speak to me about,’ I asked. 

He paused, gathering his thoughts. ‘I ‘ave 'eard the rumours, which we both know are not rumours, but it is polite to say so, about you and your trusty knight Sir John during your drinking days. I also know about your…liaisons with the so-called ‘flower of Devon’, Richard Courtenay.’

I stared at him. ‘And what is it to you if it’s true?’ 

‘We both know why I bring it up, ‘Enri.’

‘You’re…propositioning me?’

‘Yes, I’m propositioning you, if that’s ‘ow you want to say it.’

‘But, why? What do you have to gain from sleeping with the enemy?’

‘Gain? I ‘ave nothing to gain, only to lose. Tomorrow one of us will be dead, and I can’t live my life regretting missed opportunities. I saw the way you looked at me when you came in and I made up my mind. Now, you need to make up yours.’

He had failed to intimidate me before, and yet his assuredness and confidence suddenly made him seem his age. I felt a jolt of fear, though it was soon gone. He was right that one of us would die, and though I wouldn’t say it, I agreed it was more likely to be me. There was no harm in it, if I wasn’t discovered, and I found myself warming to the idea quicker than I’d like to admit.

‘Fine,’ I said, ‘I agree to your proposition.’ He smiled, his expression softening as he looked at me. 

‘Come back once everyone is asleep. ‘Ide your face and I’ll tell the guard to let you in. I’ll be waiting for you, 'Enri.’ And with that, he disappeared behind the partition.

I left the tent feeling as though I’d been tricked somehow. How had he changed so quickly? One minute he was an immature child, the next a suave and courtly gentleman, in total control of the situation. When Falstaff asked what we’d discussed, I lied and told him that the Dauphin had just been slinging more insults at me, though nothing could be further from the truth. 

Later that night, I managed to slip out of my tent unobserved and make it to the French camp. The rain was heavy, just as Falstaff had predicted, providing a perfect cover. It was strange to hear the camp so quiet after the bustle of the day; even the fires had been put out by the deluge, the sodden ashes beginning to wash away. I made it to the Dauphin’s tent where, pulling a cloak around the lower half of my face, I was let in by the guard. I wondered for a moment how common an occurrence this was, and felt almost as if I was a whore rather than a king. 

There were less candles now, which cast a dim glow over the walls. The shadows were bigger, looming, and I considered turning back. It was too late for that though. The Dauphin emerged from behind the partition wearing an expression of relief, as if he didn’t believe I would follow through on my word. 

‘‘Enri, you came,’ he said.

‘Yes, I did.’

He came towards me and unclasped the cloak from my neck. It dropped to the floor, abandoned. Gently, he took my hand and raising it to his mouth, kissed it. ‘Your majesty, if you would please follow me.’

He moved the curtain to the side and ushered me through, letting it fall back into place behind us. I was greeted with a view of his bed, just as ornate and golden as his throne. Technically, I was of higher rank than him—I was a king and he only a prince—but the French crown was infinitely more wealthy than my own. I had never seen such finery on a battlefield before, only in the most important of castles. 

‘Is it not to your liking,’ he asked. ‘I’m sure you ‘ave something much grander, as a king.’

‘No, no, it’s perfect,’ I said, and I meant it. 

‘Then, shall we get started, ‘Enri?’ He tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear, before cupping my face in his hand and kissing me. 

Afterwards, we lay in his bed, the covers wrapped around my legs as he stroked my face. His thumb rested against my cheek, against that ugly, pinched scar. I closed my eyes to avoid his expression and he tilted my chin up toward him.

‘Look at me. Please.’ I did, the back of my neck tinging pink as we make eye contact. ‘It’s beautiful, ‘onestly. It tells me that you’re a fearsome adversary, a true soldier.’

‘It isn’t that impressive. I got hit with an arrow, from a distance. I nearly died but my father’s physicians were the best he could find. I would rather have been cut down in battle than died like that. Like a coward.’

‘You are not a coward, or you wouldn’t ‘ave come here. I wasn’t wrong when I said you have giant balls.’ He laughed, the same high-pitched snorting laugh that I’d heard before, only this time it was more endearing than annoying.

He leant forward and pressed his lips to my scar. He was warm, a comforting presence on a cold night, like an extra throw to keep out the chill of castle stones. I wondered what the time was, and if I had been missed. Surely I’d have to return soon. I couldn’t remain in the Dauphin’s tent forever. 

‘I should go,’ I said, pushing myself up until I was resting on my elbows. He kissed me again, slowly, until I pulled away and stood up to dress.

‘You could always retreat. It’s not too late,’ he said, knowing full well that wasn’t an option. I would die a hundred times before I brought dishonour on my country. ‘No, I know, it is but wishful thinking.’

He paused, turning to lie on his back. ‘You English are always seeking glory. Do you think of nothing but land and wealth? My father too, ‘e will take England if you die tomorrow, and what do I get? Nothing, save an empty congratulations and another title. I am but a pawn in the game of more powerful men; I ‘ope for your sake that I don’t put you in check.’ 

I had nothing more to say to him, no kind words to assuage his self-pity. The next time we met would be across the battlefield, with war raging between us. ‘May God have mercy on your soul.’

I’ve fought in many battles before, and have no doubt I will fight in many more, but none of them has haunted me so much as Agincourt. The screams of dying men and horses, cut down mercilessly by both sides, the clash of armour against armour, and the dull thud of arrows embedding themselves in men’s chests. The carnage raged at the bottom of the hill, and I, in the thick of it, thought of the wildflowers underfoot. There were none left to speak of, all trampled to nothingness, crushed in the stampede and the struggle. Any survivors would be well watered, the blood of men raining like a shower from above. All around me soldiers were falling. English, French, it was hard to tell. My face was sticky with filth and yet I continued onwards, knowing that if I could find the Dauphin all of this would be over. 

I spotted him eventually, once I was half way up the hill. He was sat at a vantage point, dressed in sleek, dark armour. He too had realised there was no other outcome. We were destined to fight, one-on-one as I’d requested. He didn’t have a choice. The horn sounded as he approached, bringing the fighting to a halt. All eyes turned to look at us, the pair who would decide their fate. 

His eyes looked dead, sunken into his face beneath a creased brow. The sun glinted off the plate of his armour, making it seem almost black in colour, though it also made his skin look paler and more waxy. He clutched a sword in one hand and his helmet in the other. He was far more protected than I was in just chainmail, though I had no idea what he was like as a swordsman. We were both painfully aware that one of us would have to kill the other, without relying on the fray to do it on our behalf.

I nodded slightly, as if to say ‘I’m ready’, and he put his helmet on. I could no longer see his face but I wondered what expression he was making—was it one of fear, of anger, of grim resignation? We bared our swords and I prepared to feel the clash of steel against steel. 

And then it never came. I watched as he fell, weighed down by his armour, into the mud at my feet. It was a pathetic sight, such a proud man reduced to so little, a dog crawling in the dirt. I knew then that I had won; I think he did too. He would go down in history, mocked and belittled for years to come, for it’s the victors who would write his story. I didn’t want to make the command, end the life of someone I had no personal enmity with, but war demands things of us that we have no choice but to answer. I made the signal.

I turned away as my men pounced on him, spearing his body with their blades. All I could console myself with was the knowledge that it would be a quick death, an anticlimactic ending.

I didn’t look back, though I wanted to. There were too many people who would question my actions. I left the helmet too, rejected my war trophy. Somehow, I couldn’t bear to pull the visor up and look into those blank eyes, stare at each other but only I see. Instead, I left it for another man to collect, maybe sell, look the dead man in the face with no remorse and no empathy. In the end I won, but I feel like I’ve lost, because what have I achieved except a meaningless bloodbath?

**Author's Note:**

> this film was not good, it was not, and yet why does it haunt me this way? I cannot forget the terrible French accent, the blond wig, the bowl cut, the STOP THE FUCKING CHARADE line
> 
> my only solace from this film is writing equally bad fanfic about it to the detriment of everything else in my life
> 
> no doubt when everything else around me crumbles, the king (2019) will be there, calling from the darkness in the worst goddamn accent I've ever heard in my life


End file.
